Legends of the League
by CDynasty
Summary: A series of one-shots about the world of Runeterra, the interactions of different champions and the lore in general. Different perspectives, different themes and different genres for each story. From legendary rivalries to more interesting, uncommon encounters, take a seat and listen to the Legends of the League. Characters will be added when their chapter is written, maybe rating.
1. An Encounter in the Sands

**LEGENDS OF THE LEAGUE**

 **Chapter 1: An Encounter in the Sands**

Days had passed since Dana had seen another soul. His sandals had been worn by the shattered rocks that lay along his path through the sands, and his walking staff grew shorter by the hour. It would not be long before he met his end in this arid waste.

Dana lifted his canteen from his side and took a small drink. Only a few sparse droplets ebbed into his mouth. He let the container drop as he closed his eyes and let the liquid flow down his throat.

His journey had begun almost a month prior. As one of the few merchants willing to take the journey through the deepest parts of the Sai, the Shuriman desert, he was respected greatly. But this time had been different. Dana's caravan had been first attacked by bandits, where they managed to escape but lost their three guards in the process. A week later, monsters Shurimans called the Xer'Sai took out half of the remaining merchants. And now, Dana was the only one that was still trudging through. His merchandise lost, his brothers abandoned or dead.

The winds whistled over the dunes. As the sun set, possibly the last sunset Dana would ever see, he pulled out a relic, an ancient golden medallion that he had found so long ago.

He began to whisper his final prayers, for his caravan who had died because of his pride, for his family that would never see him again, and for his own soul. As his eyes closed and the darkness began, Dana collapsed in the sand of the Sai.

" _Child of Shurima. Fear not, for your spirit is not yet hollow."_

The deep, echoing voice was dream-like, almost unreal to Dana's ears. He lifted his head from the ground, and looked up for the source of the words.

There, standing above him, and above the dune itself was a towering man. No, there was no man with a visage as terrifying as that. The figure's eyes glowed in the twilight, a blue-green light that held no emotion or compassion. His bestial features were inhuman, but did not strike raw fear into Dana's heart- but more of an all-encompassing awe.

This being could be none other than Nasus, a legendary being spoken of in Shuriman myths and legends. The only one of the Ascended to still roam Shurima's sands to this day and age. Unlike many other Shuriman myths, Nasus still kept a large following, due to the fact that he was known to appear to travelers and wandering nomads throughout the wastes. And now he was before Dana.

More importantly, Nasus was no friend of humanity. His psychopompic nature was one thing that remained, even though his lore had changed throughout the centuries Shurimans had known of him. A remnant of the ancient Shuriman empires, that feasted on the souls of the living and the dead. Seeing him could only mean death.

Dana gasped out a fearful plea. "Spare my life, O mighty Ascended one. If I am to die, let me die as a whole man. My soul longs to pass into the lands of my ancestors, that live beyond the infinite river."

The great being did not react to Dana's words. Instead, he reached out and lifted the merchant's body- gently, almost tenderly. Although the man trembled, there was a surreal peace Dana began to feel.

" _Life is part of a cycle. Yours is at an end._ " Nasus paused, looking down to face Dana directly.

"I don't understand," croaked the merchant. "My life is not-"

Nasus turned Dana's body around, until he could see the ground he was lifted from. There laid a worn, old and strangely fragile-looking body. Every fiber in Dana's being buzzed with emotion, but not a single tear could be shed. "Ah. I…"

At this time, all of the prayers and thoughts Dana had carried before seemed distant and oddly dim before the rapidly approaching reality. He began to smile, his face that had been cracked and damaged by age and the harsh sunlight feeling lighter than ever before.

"I look old, don't I. I never thought of myself as old before, but…"

And then, the anger came.

"Why… why me… this was just another journey…" Dana shook with emotion, but could not bring it him to raise his voice any louder. The sound of the shifting sands and whispering winds were deafening in his ears.

He looked back up at Nasus. His fear had been replaced with something else, something that he couldn't describe.

"Can you… is there anything you can…"

Nasus did not move. His eyes stayed locked onto Dana's spirit, not with hunger, hatred or sympathy, but without emotion at all.

" _I am no god, child. For centuries, I have watched- but I do not choose when a soul doth wither away. And I cannot free you from the chains of oblivion."_

Dana wept. Wracking, shaking sobs that normally would have sent the man into a coughing fit. But now freed from his mortal limitations, the spirit shook with the feelings, the dreams and the regrets he had held for over half a century.

The night continued. Somewhere out there, a baby would cry before being lifted back into the arms of its mother. Elujrav'i' would ring their bells, bandits counting their coin and nomads filled their canteens. A child is born, and in the middle of the Sai an old merchant succumbs to the elements.

Dana looked up at the silent being.

"The cycle of life and death."

Nasus said nothing, for nothing needed to be said.

The spirit now looked onto the horizon. In his rapidly fading consciousness it had seemed to be mere minutes, but the faintest colors of dawn were appearing on the Eastern horizon.

"I have a question, O Ascended one." He looked back at the being, now more than ever at peace. Dana was fading. He thought to himself that at the moment, he was less real than the myth Nasus himself. But Nasus was real, and his unsearchable visage gave nothing away.

"What is it like, to live forever? To be free from this cycle us mortals toil in?"

Nasus remained silent for a few seconds.

" _Eons pass like days. I have seen many things, known many mortal men. I no longer remember my own mortal life."_

Dana's spirit began to break apart as the sun rose once more over the Sai, the deserts he had lived in all his life. He had always feared death, but in the end…

Nasus spoke one last time before Dana could hear no more.

" _No dawn comes without darkness. It is neverending."_

And with that, Dana's spirit was no more. All that remained under the dune was a body half-covered in sand. Weeks later, another caravan would find his bones and his golden relic in hand. One of their Eljurav'i', their bell ringers would claim the bauble, but the head merchant recognized it and brought it back to Dana's family.

So it remains in their household. The Nomad's Medallion, held as a lucky charm by each traveling member of their family.

You might be wondering, was this story truthful? After all, us Shuriman elders love to tell tales to our students. Does the Curator of the Sands really exist?

I've always said that in every tall tale, there must be a grain of truth. But, truth be told…

" _Some things must remain buried."  
_

* * *

 _Authors Note:_ So it begins. I've got a big list of ideas and already a few chapters slated to emerge soon, so stay tuned. Give some feedback if you'd like, perhaps some suggestions for what you would like to see.

Here's some "fanservice" for what's coming up next- two Freljordian titans talk about their purpose. After that, a Noxian assassin faces one of the few Demacians he cannot assassinate. Thanks for reading the first chapter of my first fic, and hope to see you all next time.


	2. The Heart is the Strongest Muscle

**LEGENDS OF THE LEAGUE**

 **Chapter 2: The Heart is the Strongest Muscle**

The forests of the Freljord do not suffer the biting winds found elsewhere in the frozen tundra, but the unimaginable cold is ever present. Although most Freljordians have adapted to the extreme temperatures, even the burliest warrior must wear layers of fur and mail to feel warm while patrolling the sprawling woods.

On this night, an Avarosan contingent was stationed at the northernmost camp. The Ironspike Mountains surrounded them, and strategically it was in a relatively safe location- there was ample distance to spot ambushes, while the only path from the mountains was only wide enough to fit one or two men at a time. Nevertheless, the Avarosan warriors felt a chill. And it certainly wasn't because of the temperature. Although, admittedly, that was a factor.

All of a sudden, there was a crashing noise from the west. Immediately the Freljordians grabbed their weapons. There was no other group scheduled to arrive today, and there were few possible alternatives that wouldn't be hostile. It could be a pack of dire wolves, or perhaps a raging Freljordian boar.

However, what emerged from the treeline was undoubtedly not a Freljordian boar, although he had the size to match. The behemoth of a man swayed to and fro as he stumbled into the clearing, where the Avarosans slowly lowered their weapons. He turned to the group drearily.

"D'you 'ave any grub? I'm starving…" The giant burped loudly, and put his oversized barrel onto the ground.

This was Gragas, the "Rabble Rouser". Every Avarosan had heard the story, of how the brewmaster had stumbled into a negotiation one day, and started a massive brawl that ended with peace, and many bruises. From that day on, the obnoxious but nevertheless non-hostile outlander had become an ally to their faction. For long, Queen Ashe had asked for Gragas to officially join the Avarosan army, but the free-spirited giant had never given an answer.

As he entered their camp, the Avarosan soldiers quickly realized they would not have the rations to feed Gragas. He was a heavy drinker, but his hunger wasn't too shabby either. With one enormous hand he palmed a whole litter of cooked rabbit, and shoved it down his throat. Lifting his cask, he downed a large gulp of brew to wash it down.

Hjarnan, the leader of this group groaned audibly. Within minutes Gragas had eaten a whole day's rations. He hadn't seen this kind of gluttony since he witnessed that yeti consume a whole frost quail in one bite. "Gragas… sir, would you mind-"

"No need to call me sir, little man," rumbled Gragas. "Call me Gragas, or if you want, you can call me Boss! Hahahaha!" He downed another swig of his brew, going cross-eyed in pleasure.

By now, the intense fumes of the cask had even the nearby warriors a little dizzy. What was in Gragas' barrel was not really a mystery, as he allowed most to try some. However, it was incredibly potent, and knocked out even the Barbarian King Tryndamere within 3 mugs worth.

Enhanced with a shard of True Ice, the brew was practically toxic to a normal human being. Of course, normal was one word Gragas could definitely not be described as.

Sweating, and with a growing blush on his face as the smell of the barrel overpowered him, Hjarnan came closer to the gorging Gragas. "That's fine then, Gragas. Could I ask you to, uh, s-slow down?"

Gragas left the rabbit hang in the air above his mouth, and shifted his gaze to look at the captain. Hjarnan was not a 'little man' by ordinary standards- he was the cream of the crop, an easily 195 cm tall warrior decked in heavy steel armor and fur. But compared to Gragas, even the scariest barbarians looked like children. Gragas snorted, letting the rabbit slide down his throat before pushing himself out of the sitting position.

"I see 'ow it is. You louts are… are greedy and selfish. I've been walking for three days without so much as a nibble, and you misers won't let me 'ave a snack!?" Now that he was standing, Gragas appeared to be even larger. Hjarnan shook in his boots as Gragas' infamous rage began acting up. There was such thing as a mean drunk, but what Gragas could be described as when pissed off could only be called a phenomenon.

Gragas took a large drink from his barrel, and his eyes appeared to glow a strange purple. He lifted his barrel over his head in preparation for a powerful strike.

"HAPPY HOUR INCOMING!"

Hjarnan fell on his rear end in terror. He had survived four battles against the Winter's Claw, and two fights with the mountain trolls, but it looked like his life was about to end. Hjarnan closed his eyes, completely out of options. His men screamed… in horror? No, it sounded like…

"Stand behind Braum!"

A powerful collision knocked Hjarnan away, and he slammed into a boulder, completely unconscious.

The clearing was filled with an eerie calm, as Gragas opened his eyes, suddenly sobered to find a massive wall of ice blocking his way. No, not a wall of ice- a shield of ice. As it slowly crumbled, behind it stood a similarly impressive man, although with much more muscle and much less size.

"Think carefully, my friend. You should not be so scary to these ones, yes?"

* * *

A few minutes later, Gragas and Braum were walking away from the Avarosan outpost. The shaken soldiers helped their commander up, looking over their shoulders to see the two titans wander off into the woods.

Gragas had calmed down significantly at the sight of Braum. His presence alone was calming enough, but there was just something about the man that brought a sense of peace and safety.

The so-called 'Heart of the Freljord', Braum was a legendary folk hero for every Freljordian. There was no man, woman or child that had not heard of his incredible exploits, and it seemed that wherever you went there was some new tale about Braum and his heroism. Braum himself was reclusive, supposedly a goat farmer up in the mountains.

Comparatively, where Gragas had size and height, Braum had muscle. His powerful form did not appear as threatening as the brewmasters, as he was built for defense rather than disruption. Braum's entire body was tense and ready to move quickly as the situation required. It was this preparedness that had propelled him into action in so many situations, saving anyone- children, livestock, villages, and even trolls.

In person, Braum was certainly not less impressive than the legends. He carried an enormous shield, which upon closer inspection was some sort of door, enchanted with ancient magic. His walk was brisk, but not rushed- every part of the man seemed… perfect. Well, at least compared to Gragas' drunken gait.

At that, Braum turned to the giant and stopped. "Put away your worried face! We are just taking walk, away from these friends." He lifted one muscled arm and placed it on Gragas' shoulder, only slightly higher than his own.

Gragas did not know why he felt so nervous. In the back of his mind, he knew exactly why however. This was not his first meeting with Braum. The first time they had met however, Gragas was much younger.

* * *

At that time, Gragas was certainly still an outlander- a non-native to the Freljord. Nevertheless, on his globe-trotting adventures, he had come to the Freljord long ago, when his beard was only neck-length and his stomach one third of its current size.

The younger Gragas had been searching for ingredients for making a new brew, as he did now. And at that time he had stumbled into a small village near the Ironspike Mountains, where something incredible happened. His memories were foggy, now that it had been more than 30 years since then, but he still remembered the muscular titan catching the avalanche and redirecting it, saving the entire village from an icy doom.

There was no mistaking it- that hero was Braum. The same face, the same smile, the same facial hair. His shield was also just as distinctive.

So now that he knew it was Braum, why did he feel such unease? Was it because the man seemed larger than life, too good to be true? What was the secret to his strength, his ability to be everywhere at once?

Or perhaps was it that he looked the exact same when Gragas was not even 20, compared to when he was half a century old? In fact, he has always looked the same, in every description, in every story, from one generation to the next. How many generations did Braum's tale go back then? Who was Braum?

* * *

Coming back to his senses, Gragas came to the realization that Braum was asking him a question. He looked down at the man with more than a little apprehension.

"I said, my friend, would you like something to drink?" Gragas' eyes lit up at that, for a second. Then it was replaced with some confusion.

"'Ello? I 'ave enough to drink 'ere, thank ya very much." He lifted his barrel to show what he meant. Braum chuckled and kept the same warm, kind expression on his face.

"Why not enjoy some warm milk instead? When it is this cold, you must keep your spirits high!"

A strange thing to say, as the two were probably some of the few creatures in the Freljord that could walk about in the cold without so much as a loincloth or some pants on.

Gragas grumbled at the sound of a nonalcoholic beverage. "Milk? Ha!" He grumbled and tried to hide his feeling of faint confusion by turning away from Braum.

But as if he could sense this, Braum immediately moved to face the brewmaster. "I know you are feeling down, big man. You should know, my mother always used to say…"

Before he knew it, Gragas was chuckling along with Braum as they walked through the forest. Eventually, they ended up on top of an icy hill, with no trees on it. Braum and Gragas took a seat at the top, where they could see the surrounding woods for a few kilometers around.

A question was burning at the front of Gragas' mind now, but before he could ask it Braum broke the silence with words of his own.

"I know it must be tough for you, Gragas. I myself would like to stay out of this fighting time. But there is a part of me that wants to help. Sometimes battle is unavoidable, you know?" He chuckled, then returned to his spiel.

"The Queen asked me to talk to you. She said that only someone like me could convince you, but I don't think that is true, yes? Sometimes icy heart just needs warm smile."

Gragas looked almost sullen at these words. He had stayed out of the conflict as well, and there was also a multitude of reasons why he would not join in the fray. Gragas loved a good fight, but there was a similar part of him that wanted to just roam about the land. Like the way he used to.

"Don't get pushy, you lout. I'm not even from the Freljord, I'm an outlander." Outlander was a common derogatory term for non-natives, usually meaning they could not handle the cold, or that they did not belong. But Braum did not stop for even a moment.

"Take heart. If you are outlander, I am outlander. There is no outlander among us brothers and sisters of the Avarosan. We all fight because we love the Freljord. We love what makes this land so special, yes?" Gragas could not deny that he had come to enjoy this frozen country, and that he practically considered it his home.

With every excuse he provided, Braum countered it with his own wisdom, advice, and sometimes a reference to his mother's own philosophies- perhaps they were a figure of speech. Gragas could not help but feel somewhat more special just by listening to Braum's words.

Finally, he saw his chance and spoke up.

"I just can't fight with you folk. You know me, you know I am too… too…" Gragas struggled with the last words, and then he spit them out like they were poison.

"I'm too old for this battle, this war. I wouldn't be useful. All I do is stagger from tavern to tavern, camp to camp eating and drinking my fill. I'm a bloody pain in the arse is all. They don't really want me to fight, they want me because I'm a symbol."

Braum was silent at that, but only for a few seconds as he digested what was said. At last he spoke, gently and almost at a whisper.

"Even heaviest door can be opened, friend. If you are to be a symbol, then so be it. This war is not just about you, yes? It is about the future, for all of the people to come who deserve to live in peace. No time for worrying, okay? Come with me."

Braum stood up again, and pointed far to the south. Gragas knew that Braum was gesturing towards the capital of the Avarosan faction. He had to make a choice- would he go with Braum? Or could he just leave it all behind again and wander back into drunken oblivion, out of civilization.

Finally, he lifted his barrel and stretched his arms as far out as he could. Shaking his heavy gut, he let out a mighty roar of emotion. Then he turned to Braum with a grin on his bearded face.

"Aright, you convinced me. Well, let's get this party started then! If I'm to fight for the Queen, I want to eat and drink like a KING, you hear?" And with that, Gragas leapt up and flew into the woods, launching his enormous body like a cannonball.

Braum laughed heartily and looked into the horizon. Dawn was breaking, and the sun reflected off Braum's mighty shield. His eyes turned unreadable for just a second, and he began to follow Gragas towards the rest of the Avarosans.

"You would never be too old, Gragas. Trust me. I know old…"

Just like the legends, Braum leapt straight over the treetops, covering a huge distance within seconds, beyond any normal, nay beyond any human ability.

And like that, he was gone.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_ I am so excited that the new lore is coming out for Shurima, and at the same time slightly annoyed that Nasus is about to receive new lore that I could have written on in Chapter 1. Well, as a wise man once said, "Ayy lmao". Stay tuned for the next chapter, with another Champion that is bound to get retconned pretty soon, GALIO (and Talon).


End file.
